Numair's Story
by Dangerously Cheezy
Summary: Numair's journey from the dungeons of Carthak to the courts of Tortall
1. Default Chapter

Title: Numair's Story  
  
Author: Me  
  
Disclaimer: All characters from Tamora Pierce's books obviously belong to her copyright. I only wish I had half the imagination it takes to create a Stormwing…  
  
Chapter One  
  
He breathed a prayer of thanks to any listening gods as he was thrust into blessed darkness. Uncounted hours of continuos bright light and two days of sleep deprivation were wreaking havoc on his body and mind. The guards laughed as he slumped to the floor onto a scattering of slimy straw—a poor excuse for a pile, but welcome at the moment, nonetheless.  
  
The guards stopped laughing as a dark-skinned, imposing man, whose many gold and bejeweled adornments winked in the light of the torch against the blackness of the dungeon, approached silently. He stepped past the sentries and looked down at the man in the cell, an odd gleam in his eyes.  
  
"Don't allow him to sleep for more than an hour," the man spoke softly, the beads hanging from the many braids in his hair clicked as he craned his head for a better view of his suffering prisoner. "I want him to be awake to contemplate his execution tomorrow. But do not tell him the day or the hour. Let his mind wander in confusion. I want him broken," he spit out the final word with contempt. Abruptly, he turned and strode back down the dark corridor from whence he had come, the chilling tone of his voice lingering on the moldy stones of the passageway.  
  
The harsh clamor of wooden staffs being beaten against the metal bars of his cell wrenched Arram from the precious little sleep he had managed to fall into while in this pit. He was aware of the torture techniques being used upon him; he was also aware that they were working as intended. He was losing his ability to focus and the smallest noises were causing him to glance about nervously in a vain attempt to locate the source. The sentries jeered as Arram jerked into a sitting position and scrambled as far back into the cell as he could manage. A small dish of thin porridge with a cup of brackish water were pushed into the cell. Arram reached forward to grab them and then retreated hastily once again, as though someone might take the rancid food from him. At first, he hadn't eaten the meager gruel or moldy bread. When he realized that Ozorne had no intention of forgiving him, and that the prisoners were only fed every two to three days, he choked down his inhibitions along with the food.  
  
He had just forced himself to swallow the last of the polluted water when someone that he couldn't see drew the attention of the guards. They stepped out of Arram's field of vision to speak in low tones with the visitor. Moments later, much to his surprise, the guards crumpled to the floor. A helmeted head came to rest briefly in front of the cell before the body was dragged away. Arram, unsure of what was happening, began to panic. He tried to squeeze his six-foot-five-inch frame into the corner in hopes of not being noticed. The part of his mind that was separate from all that was transpiring informed him that this exercise was futile. His legs continued to push against the floor as though he could sink into the wall and disappear.  
  
Keys jingled and scraped in the lock. "Arram?" a soft, feminine voice carried through the darkness. "Arram? Are you there?" He shifted, desperately wanting to dissolve into the dirty stones of the floor.  
  
"Arram?" another voice, a male voice thick with worry, hissed into the gloom.  
  
"Oh my—Arram!" Varice Kingsford, Arram Draper's lover, a shapely blonde woman of about twenty, stepped carefully into the cell. When she saw Arram in the corner, she dropped to the floor and reached for him. He threw up his arms to hold her at bay and croaked from a throat horse from screaming.  
  
"Don't touch me! Please! Don't hurt me…" his voice trailed off as he lost energy. Varice could now see eyes bright from fever and a face gray from exhaustion by the light of the torch carried by her companion, Lindhall Reed, Arram's former teacher.  
  
Lindhall pushed the raving man's arms down. Arram offered no more resistance; he sat limply against the wall, no longer caring what happened to him. "It's times like this I'd give anything to have a healing Gift," Lindhall put a hand to Arram's forehead and quickly drew it back, wincing. "He's burning. We have to hurry. I didn't give the guards very much nightbloom; they won't be out for long." Varice didn't respond. She sat staring at the shadow of the man she loved sitting on the floor. "Varice!" Lindhall barked at her. She jumped to attention. Dragging over the satchel she had brought with her, she removed a large pair of shears and, timidly, approached Arram once again. The expected attack never came. His eyes looked straight through her for a few moments and then closed. His head lolled to the side in unconsciousness. Dragging him away from the wall, The two wrestled him into a better position and began to cut of his long, thick black hair. The curls fell to the floor, blending in with the scum and dirty straw.  
  
"He's not going to be very happy when he wakes up and discovers that his beloved hair is all cut off," Varice attempted to make light conversation, but the tone of her voice betrayed tears close to the surface.  
  
"At least when he wakes up he'll be free. Hair grows back; heads don't," Lindhall muttered. "Besides, if he's recognized, then all this is for nothing. He'll be dead before he even notices the breeze on his neck."  
  
Varice said no more. Once Arram's appearance was altered as much as they could alter it without magic, they heaved him onto a blanket sling and dragged him out of the cell and down the passageway. At the bottom of a small flight of stairs, two large men rolled the blanket about him and picked him up as though he weighed nothing. Varice laid a hand on the blanketed figure before he was carried away.  
  
"Goodbye, Arram," she whispered. 


	2. In which Numair wakes up in a Player Cam...

Chapter Two  
  
Someone was singing. The tune was familiar, but he couldn't remember the words. The singer was too soft for him to decipher what was being said. Another voice joined the first, adding a harmony. He allowed his thoughts to drift. The song was a northern folk tune-it reminded him of his childhood and his family. A third voice began to chant a descant above the others. "Quiet!" a voice hissed. "You'll wake him." "He's been sleeping for three days. Maybe he needs to wake up!" "Well, no one gave you the job, so keep it down!" "Where am I?" His hoarse voice cut into the conversation of the children standing outside of his tent flap. He could hear them gasp and jump in surprise. One of them ran. Very slowly, two small heads-one with dark hair and one with light-peered around the tent flap, eyes wide in round faces. "You're with my father's Player troupe," the dark-haired boy, a Northerner, spoke first. "They brought you three days ago. Why aren't we allowed to tell anyone that you are here?" "You smelled. And you were very dirty. Did you fall into the mud? I get dirty all over when I play in the mud, and then my mother gets vexed at me," the golden-haired girl, also from the North, stepped around the flap for a better look. "I was-" a fit of coughing overtook him before he could tell them anything. A shadow fell over the children as an adult approached from behind. "Trinn, Daev, what did I tell you about disturbing this man?" The children jumped again and looked up at the woman. Her dark hair was held away from her face by a pink scarf. The tails of the scarf fluttered in the slight breeze moving among the tents. "I'm sorry, Mama," the little girl, Trinn, apologized. "He spoke to us first," the boy attempted to withstand her glare. After a few moments, both children bowed their heads and slid around the woman's legs, leaving the tent. "They tell me your name is Arram," she sat down the basket she carried and pulled aside the kerchief to reveal food and clothing. "You shouldn't use that name," his voice was little more than a whisper. Another coughing fit racked his thin body. She handed him a skin of water. He drank and then sank back into the pillows. "Yes. They also told me that you are hunted man," she looked at him with steady eyes, waiting for him to tell her his side of the story. "I was studying at the Imperial University. I was good friends with Ozorne, the heir to the throne. We had.a disagreement, and he accused me of treason. The last thing I remember clearly is being sentenced to die for a crime I did not commit and being locked up in the palace dungeons," he coughed again and sipped more water. "He'll have to leave Carthak. Ozorne will never stop searching for him," a dark-haired man entered the tent. He was a small slim man-a Player, by his clothes. "You put yourselves at risk by harboring me," Arram whispered. "But I am more grateful than you can possibly know." "You are welcome, although you will not be able to stay much longer. We told Lindhall-" "Lindhall!" Arram croaked. "He's involved in all this?" "Yes. He contacted us a week ago, asking us to give you sanctuary. We cannot help you for long, though. Soldiers are searching for you and watching everyone-especially us Northerners. If we do anything out of the ordinary, or stay longer than we had planned, then we will all be caught." "I understand. I know Ozorne well-he's relentless. I hope Lindhall wasn't caught; he doesn't deserve to be punished for being my friend. No one does," Arram closed his eyes and leaned back again. "We have some associates who can shelter you for a short time. They will be here for you in a few hours," the woman laid the fresh clothes across a small stool and set the basket of food next to it. "What tricks do you have up your sleeves to smuggle me about the city?" "Oh, you'll see," they smiled as only Players can smile and silently left the tent. 


End file.
